


In the Alleys of Paris

by delta6453



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-27
Updated: 2017-10-02
Packaged: 2018-12-07 12:22:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11623443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/delta6453/pseuds/delta6453
Summary: It's been years since the tyrannical Black Prince took the Throne, but the country is still largely at unrest. Not on the surface, there are the King's Silver Soldiers to worry about. Akaashi works as a baker in the small, relatively quiet town of St. Marie. Bokuto wanders around clad completely in black. He really couldn't look more suspicious if he tried.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> First and foremost --> delta6453.tumblr.com Feel free to hit me up on here any time ^^ 
> 
> Now, for a bit of preface. I've had writer's block for a long time, and finally decided that it's better to write something, even if it's out of your elemeny. Thus, this. Also, the Paris idea is not just because I think Europe in general makes a lovely backdrop, but because I've been brushing up on my French and wanted to include it. Then I realized that you can't exactly replace Japanese suffixes with French prefixes, and the idea fell on its face. 'Vuvoyer'-ing wouldn't have worked, either, I suspect, so I just gave up and let it be. So, regrettably, Akaashi uses '-san' in French. 
> 
> Anyways, I hope historical inaccuracies aren't too glaring, although this clearly isn't based on any specific event. Please enjoy!

There had been a terrible storm, that cold November day. The halls lay deserted, quiet save for the pounding of the rain on the windows. The tapestries and carpets, rich burgundies in daylight, became ominous in the darkness that shrouded the castle. A candle had sat somewhere deep within, casting the King’s shadow against a pair of pillars behind him. Casting his shadow, dark and elongated, against the spotted marble. Nothing like the King himself, graying and meek, by all accounts a husk with an ornate crown on its head. The flame had wavered, and the King had lifted his head, glancing towards the heavy wooden doors that led to the grand hall. Perhaps he’d sensed something in the air, realized the usual clatter of armored guards standing at watch had been strangely absent that night. Maybe, even, he could just barely hear the many soft steps crossing the carpets just outside the door. In any case, he’d watched and waited for one minute, two minutes, three. The doors were heaved open on three. The many figures stood in the doorway faintly defined by candlelight. Soldiers in impeccable silver at the front, soldiers in a far duller gray, a color he almost thought he recognized, holding up the rear. And at the very front, a young man in red and black he’d never seen before. The old King had smiled faintly, for the last time as it would come to be. “So this is the fabled coup d’etat, is it?”

Thus came into power the youngest King of France. The ‘Black Prince,’ as he would come to be called. 

Or so the stories went. They’d been passed around for years, the butcher’s wife and shoemaker adding a new detail each time they retold the story. Even the village children, when they weren’t splashing around in the river that ran by St. Marie, were whispering about the Black Prince and that fateful night. Akaashi thought that must be how the smile and last words had come about, fantasies conceived by children who had grown up with far too many Brothers Grimm tales. Sometimes he thought he was the only villager that had no interest in the many stories surrounding the Black Prince. Still, the bright-eyed children who came in daily clamoring for sweet buns had grown up in a time different from him, so he’d dutifully listen to their new additions to the story. No, they’d say, the candle didn’t flicker, it went out, and he’d hope his smiles and nods were convincing, because he understood they meant no harm. Especially since all they really saw of the castle was a dark blot on the western horizon. 

The door chime dinged, interrupting his thoughts and work. Wiping his brow and pulling the stained rag off his head, he flashed a weak smile towards the doorway. 

“Welco-“

“That creepy smile again? Keiji I must’ve told you a thousand times, that smile won’t bring in any customers!” 

“…Yukie.” His face fell as she entered the shop, pouncing directly towards the rack of croissants. She’d made it a habit to come to the bakery daily, plundering several coins worth of bread. Come on Keiji, she would say each time, eyes widening innocently, I’m having Papa make you a nice authentic leather belt, you know how it is! And then she’d run out, skirts flapping behind her, as if she’d never been there in the first place. 

“Let me tell you, these things are incredible! Your real charm point is these croissants, not that fake smile.” She waltzed over, mouth full of food. “Of course, the rest of you isn’t that bad either, Keiji.” 

“Very funny. Won’t Papa be upset if you keep skipping work?” She grinned, swallowing down the croissants and reaching over for another. He eyed her dirty sleeve, hanging dangerously close above the cross buns he’d just made. 

“Aw, come on, I’ve already done my work!” His eyes fell to the bare skin above the old brown corset that sat on her hips loosely. He wondered if her collarbones were protruding even more than usual or whether it was simply his own concern that was making him think so. She followed his gaze, narrowing her eyes. “For once, I really hope you’re checking me out and not looking at anything else. Maman’s got a job now too, we can pay the taxes. You should really worry about yourself first.” 

He looked down at the half-kneaded dough, avoiding her gaze. She smiled sheepishly, blush returning to her cheeks. “Sorry, I know you don’t like talking about it. But that’s why I came in, actually.” She leaned in, standing on the tips of her toes to whisper into his ear. “They say the Black Prince is planning to hike the taxes again.” 

He sighed. Again? If it was true, Yukie might have been right after all. But knowing her and her sources, the information was faulty in some way. Hopefully, this time. “Who did you get this one from anyways?” 

She scowled. “Rude. You just wait until the rebels and dissenters start pouring into Paris! Then you can come and apologize for being a naysayer.” 

“Careful, a leather maker shouldn’t be spurring a revolution.” He’d said it as playfully as he could, but he’d hoped she’d caught the urgency in his expression. The Black Prince wasn’t the type to tolerate talk of an uprising, even when in jest. One never knew where one of his Silver Guards may be prowling. Or who the rumored double-crossers were. Surely even poor outskirt towns where only draft horses and languid farmers clopped down the lanes weren’t safe. Surely even in places where women fussed over their delicately preened gardens of peonies and tulips weren’t safe. Without doubt, even the cobble stoned streets of St. Marie were filled with the King’s eyes and puppet strings. Despite the town being nothing like it had been following that day years ago, it wasn’t anything like it had been before then either. Among the older villagers ran an uneasiness when it came to the Black Prince. A flit of the eye before discussing anything about Paris, an instinctive step backwards at talk of his plans. A general dread at the mere mention the Black Prince in public understood by all. Especially by those who’d lived through it all. 

She peeked out the door. No one around. But again, one could never be too sure. “Thanks, Keiji.” The two looked at out at the darkening sky, waiting for the other to speak, break the tension that had become far too palpable. “Papa said to come around tonight, we’re having porridge.” He nodded in acknowledgement, both fully aware that he wasn’t coming and wouldn’t regardless how many times she asked. She smiled softly, gathering up her skirts and running off into the direction of her father’s shop. 

The lamplighters had already begun making their rounds, the gentle golden glow settling on the stones of the lane. If he wanted to meet the quota this month, he’d certainly have to increase his production. Which meant longer hours. He sighed. He began working on a loaf of brioche. From the kitchen window, he could see the sprawling field where the grain grew, brimming with firebugs droning about. Beyond that, the castle’s citadels, sleek and imposing even in the pale moonlight. And if he squinted, he could still see the stars. The multitude of stars that filled the sky. 

They reminded him of the first time they’d gone out at night, on a secret escapade, as she’d called it. When they’d stumbled across the old farmer’s mill, and spent the entire night contriving constellations through the laggardly spinning blades. They reminded him of the many times that’d come after. She’d loved them more than anything else, his mother. And lost in a sea of faint lights and even fainter memories, he resolved kneading the dough late into the night perhaps wasn’t so bad. 

The door chimed, bringing his attention back to the dough he’d been kneading for far too long. Using the little wax he had left in the front window had certainly been a good way to get a foot above the rest of the lane’s bakers. He pulled the linen cloth off his head, put on a shaky smile, took a step towards the front of the shop. 

A figure clothed completely in black looked at the bread set out on the counter. Akaashi stepped back into the kitchen quietly, carefully considering his next move. Black? It was a strange choice of clothing for a peasant, and briefly Akaashi wandered whether his idea really was so bright after all. Had he not considered the risk of thieves, or worse, the King’s supposed night sentries? He’d hold his breath, wait for the figure to speak. 

“Hellooo? Shopkeeper, or anyone really, are you there?” The voice was far too loud and somehow grating, but held no hint of menace. Akaashi composed himself, and stepped over to the counter. 

“I mean, maybe you think I’m a bad guy, but I promise I’m not! The bread just smelled really good, and there was a candle out after all, and I was wondering if – oh, there you are!” The soft glow of the candle was enough to illuminate his wide smile. “How much for a loaf?” 

It flashed through Akaashi’s mind that he say nine francs instead of three. Anyone who was wandering around nowadays at night wasn’t the average peasant simply looking out for their families. But it was something he couldn’t go through with, regardless how he tried to reason with himself. Something deep within himself craved for honesty, and even though all the other towns’ bakers had already raised their prices threefold, he wouldn’t do it. Taxes were taxes, but there were other ways to get money and still meet the quota. He baked for himself. Not for the law, the money, the King. 

“Three francs.” The stranger’s eyes visibly grew larger, even in the dim light. 

“Really? No way, you must be joking!” 

Akaashi thought about it. Who in their right mind would be making jokes about money? “No, I’m not joking. Three francs, that’s it.” 

The man stooped over, large body shuddering. Akaashi watched, puzzled. Perhaps he would have preferred a robber. It would have been more conventional, at the least. The man suddenly jumped up, throwing his head back, riotous laughter filling the little store. “What an expression! Three francs, I got it.” He wiped tears from his eyes, much to Akaashi’s alarm. He continued, little regard for the lull of the neighbourhood and the sleep of the citizens. 

“Kuroo gave me these nine coins, see. Told me to buy us all a loaf of bread to share. But now it looks like I can buy three instead.” He put the coins on the counter, looking at the breads on display once more, carefully picking out three loaves. The candle had fallen to a low flicker, the wax pooling on the table by the entrance. By moonlight, the man’s expression was unreadable, his shape falling out of focus. 

“Goodbye, M. Shopkeeper! Thanks for the bread,” he called as he stepped over the display. The display which he promptly tripped and fell over, bread scattering across the floor. Akaashi rushed over, hoping the breads weren’t too badly damaged. Several loaves must have laid sprawled across the stone floor. He put his hand to his face, wishing rather strongly that he was in bed instead of with this ill-mannered stranger. Rather than the initial fear he’d felt, now he was just…

“Man,” the stranger chuckled sheepishly, “didn’t think that would happen.” He stooped over, trying in vain to pick up the pieces and match them to their counterparts. Did he think he could go home and piece them together, and give them back to be sold them the next day? It was laughable, outright foolish. He had not the energy to scream at or admonish the man. Instead, Akaashi set himself down beside him, placing the pieces in the paper bag. A day’s work, a kilogram of grain, wasted on a stranger. 

“Whatever, there’s nothing to be done about it. You can have it all, I have nothing to do with bits of cold bread anyways.” The man stopped and turned to him, huffing. 

“Oh, don’t be like that! I’m a man who pays his dues, I could never leave like that.” He brought his hands to his head, untying the black cloth around his head. “After all, I’m Bokuto, a man of gallantry and valor! You?”

More like bravado. Akaashi settled on a grimace, hesitantly giving his real name. “Akaashi.” 

“Akaashi.” Bokuto grinned, drawling on the k. “We’ll be in town for a few days, and because I can’t just take all this bread for free, especially not with that Black Prince mucking around up there in Paris,” with how little concern he’d said such an incentive statement, “I’ve decided I’ll come back tomorrow, and help you bake the day’s bread! How’s that for a deal?” 

It wasn’t a deal, it was a headache. A novice, who knew not how to knead nor pick the right grains would only be a hindrance. But a warm hand had already clasped his own, a rag of cloth tight between them. “I promise that I’ll help tomorrow, on my honor as a man.” The cloth was damp with sweat, full of holes and torn at the edges, but he held on to it tightly, because the weight which it evidently held was almost tangible. 

Bokuto had already hobbled out of the store, paper bag rustling against his side. He strolled out into the empty street, leisurely waving an arm in farewell. Akaashi watched from the door, poised to say something, anything, but no words coming to mind. The cloth was still clenched in his right hand, crumbs littering the floor behind him. Yet, he continued to watch. 

The cobbled path with its patchwork of shadow and light. The cottages and shops, flower beds neatly arranged and windows diligently cleaned in daylight, muted and vague in moonlight. The crescent moon and sprawl of white stars overhead. And the man clothed in black, whose hair was peaks of silver under the lamp lights, a stranger to it all.


	2. Chapter 2

Yukie listened attentively. At first, her eyes were wide, lips pressed in worry. Eventually, Akaashi noticed her composure beginning to crack, her hiding her smile behind the palm of her hand, avoiding his gaze in a futile attempt to not snicker under her breath. He shook his head lightly, regretting ever thinking she would have any good advice. By the time he’d finished the story, she was clutching at her stomach, laughing so hard Akaashi was sure the florist at the end of the lane could hear it. He waited, tapping a finger on the counter. What a flippant girl. 

“On my God, Keiji, you’re incredible.” She rubbed a tear from her eye. “Where is this mystery man anyways?” 

He shrugged. Akaashi’d no clue where the ‘mystery man’ was. For all he’d proclaimed, he’d never given a time. The only thing he’d given was his name and a dirtied scrap of cloth. On closer inspection, the cloth had been a square of dyed linen. A material easy to obtain, a black dye that smelled of nuts, a recipe, in fact, most cloth dyers knew well. It didn’t stink of nobility, rank. The King. What if, he thought, the man was far more like the rest of them than their uncanny encounter had led him to believe? On the other hand, he questioned the sincerity of the giver. It could have been a clever way to avoid an immediate fallout, hand off a meaningless cloth and make like he would come again the next day. Worse, there was still the risk of double- crossers. His doubts gave way to suspicion, and he had yet to decide whether he wanted to see him again or forget he ever existed. 

“He hasn’t shown up yet, huh?” Yukie traced a finger through a spot of flour on the counter. “Honestly, I didn’t even know you started working so early until Papa started sending me out to get the bread.” It was a Sunday morning, the one day Yukie had a reason to hang around the bakery, and the money to actually pay for the loaves. She picked out five loaves, placing five in the woven basket, the sixth in her mouth. 

“All I’m saying is baking must be a pain. You better come and tell me when this man comes around!” 

“If,” he corrected. 

She waved him off, sauntering towards the entrance, continuing through a mouthful of bread. “Have faith Keiji!” Her voice came muffled from beyond the walls of the building. “Believe, for once in your life!”

Believe, huh? A tall order when the entire town was suspended in a web of wariness. Akaashi settled his arms on the counter, quietly studying the iron worker’s cottage across the lane. The farmer’s old horse clopped its way across the stone, dragging the makeshift carriage behind him. Sunlight had already started to filter through the front windows. Most villagers would send out a child to pick up the week’s worth of bread at around this time, tradespeople fixing to start their own day’s work. He’d give it another hour, he thought. Not that he could have abandoned his post in any case. 

The chime of the bell wasn’t nearly as loud as the panting. Akaashi glanced down at the man, who had plodded his way through the shop and immediately bowed his head to below his knees. 

“I’m really sorry! Really, really! I didn’t realize the bakery would be so hard to find by daylight, and I must have ran by at least twice. Darn, I got up so early for this too.” Akaashi studied him carefully. He wore a black tunic, hanging low and loose, and his hair seemed meticulously styled, streaked with grays and whites and standing straight as cornstalks. The skin of his neck was white, fair. And furthermore, he seemed to begin his days the way he ended them, loud and terribly intrusive. It was all very curious indeed. 

At the silence, Bokuto raised his face, straightened his back. Two large golden eyes peered down into Akaashi’s own, inquisitive and alert. An ordinary downtrodden laborer would have averted their gaze, preferred to study his face sidelong. No stranger had looked at him so intently as this man now did, gaze slipping across his face and up to his own. And while it was far too intrusive, it was somehow refreshing. Bokuto’s smile stretched to his ears. 

“You’re nothing like I pictured, Agaashi!” Had he forgotten his name, or merely flubbed the K? “I was convinced you were this older distinguished gentleman, you know the mentor type. But looking now, you must be even younger than me!” 

Akaashi glared. His lack of a filter was almost impressive. “Glad to hear that. Bokuto-san, what do you actually plan to do now that you’re here?”

He halted, leaning to his side to glance behind Akaashi. He slowly lifted a finger, gestured towards the back of the cottage. The meager kitchen, with its stone oven by the yard door and its worn kneading block under the largest window of the house. “That, right? Bake bread, like I said yesterday?” Akaashi turned back towards the man, assessing his sincerity. His round eyes, free of any hint of derision. That was the answer after all, then? 

“Don’t mock making bread, it isn’t that easy. I don’t have grain to waste on failed attempts.” 

“You too, don’t mock my own skills!” He crossed his arms, and for the first time Akaashi noticed how they the sleeves of the thin black tunic seemed far too tight. Bokuto smiled, pointing towards his own chest. “I wasn’t a stable boy for four years with nothing to show for it. Check this out.” He turned, pulling up his tunic. Yes, like the muscles that tensed themselves against the skin of his arms, the muscles in his back were coiled and taut beneath the pale skin. Even after years of kneading, his own was still as gaunt as a boy’s. A gap in experience and drive, perhaps? Somehow, it bothered him. 

“Alright,” he conceded, “I’ll let you knead the dough. Put your clothes on, I’m not running a bordello.” Eyes bright, Bokuto climbed over the counter and clapped Akaashi on the back. “I told you, I told you! This will be worth your time!” 

Sure. If spending time teaching a novice to bake was somehow worth it. 

He pulled a stained head piece out from behind the counter, and tied it tightly behind his head, pulling stray hairs off his forehead. Bokuto shadowed him, pulling the head piece so that it didn’t interfere with his carefully arranged hair. What had he used to get his hair to stand like that? Akaashi considered asking later. Akaashi placed one of the balls of dough he’d set to leaven on the window sill on the kneading block. He spread a pinch of grain flour across its surface, and turned to see if Bokuto was still watching. He was, gaze focused on Akaashi’s motionless hands above the dough. Exhaling, he pushed the heels of his palms into the dough, folding it into itself and using the tips of his long fingers to shape it as it became warm and pliant. He pushed from his back, his shoulders, turning the dough at odd intervals, rounding it as he went along. He baked the way he’d been taught years ago, the way he had for the many years since. His eyes and mind sharp, his hands lithe and agile. Everything he had, he put into his baking. 

Confidently, he stood back. Wiping his arm against his brow, rocking his shoulders until the soreness had faded. One single loaf, a single loaf he’d sell for three francs later that night. Once, a long time ago, an apprentice had watched him do the very same thing, and after a single loaf, had naively stated that he didn’t think it should be that hard. Baking? It could be half-assed, couldn’t it? It wouldn’t matter much to the consumer, would it? Was it really worth it to put in that much effort? 

He’d pondered over it, and he’d ultimately decided it was. The apprentice had ultimately switched to metalworking, overwhelmed by Akaashi’s intenseness. Maybe no other baker felt so, Akaashi ruminated later, maybe no one else in all of France did. But he did. For him, it was worth it.

“Wow,” exhaled Bokuto, momentarily forgotten, peering from the loaf to Akaashi’s face. “Somehow, I get this feeling your baking is terribly passionate.” 

Akaashi wondered if the surprise showed on his face. No one had ever acknowledged the passion he put into the craft. Not any other baker, not Yukie, not the many apprentices. They’d praise the taste, the smell, the feeling, the technique. Never the passion, anything but that. He’d come to accept that he’d become dead eyed, like everyone else who’d lived through those days, incapable of showing anything other than fear and simmering resentment. But here stood this person, whose eyes were alight and smile was unabated, and he was acting like it was only natural. Though it wasn’t, it certainly wasn’t. 

“How can you tell?”

Bokuto tilted his head. “Not sure. You can just kind of can, I guess?” His gaze moved slowly, coming to rest upon the large window, outside, where the tall stalks of wheat swayed softly in the midday wind. Beyond them, the cottages of Paris, the glistering towers of the castle, the large expanse of cloudless sky. “Maybe it’s because I can relate, in some way or another?” But in that moment, his expression far off and dreamy, that was all he said and nothing more. 

Shaking his head, cracking his knuckles, he eagerly looked over the dough Akaashi had set out. 

“Alright, time for your proud compatriot to put his own skills to the test!” Akaashi squeezed his eyes shut. Had any glass been used for the window, it would surely have cracked. Satisfied that Bokuto had begun to work properly, Akaashi thought it was a good opportunity for him to clean the well out back. Indeed, even Bokuto would be able to knead dough for the next few hours without wreaking havoc on the bakery. Considering the villagers picked up bread early in the morning or late in the afternoon, he wouldn’t have to worry. 

Except he was slightly worried, and it wasn’t because he thought Bokuto would ruin his kitchen. It was because he didn’t dislike him as much as he expected he would. He was completely unlike anyone else he’d ever met, and even then, he thought he wouldn’t mind having him around. That, precisely, was the part that worried him. 

By the time he’d set to go in, the Sun had fallen to the horizon, painting the stalks of grain a rich golden. Trekking towards the cottage, the scent of fresh bread overtook him. Had his guest managed to figure out how to work the oven too? Akaashi was almost impressed, if his first instinct wasn’t to be irate at the fact that his cottage could very easily have burned down to the ground. 

As he entered the kitchen, Bokuto looked up from the slab, using an arm to wipe the sweat from his brow. “Akaashi! Look over there, isn’t it great? I think I’m a natural!” By the oven sat racks of golden loaves. They were oddly shaped and lopsided, but the dough seemed like it had been kneaded well enough. On the floor next to the stove though… Well, he’d expected it to some degree. 

“What is that?” 

Bokuto turned to the blackened loaves, rubbing his neck guiltily. “You know… It took a bit to learn how to use the oven. Ha ha…” He blinked several times, drawing together his brows. “Right, where did you go? We were going to have a good old talk, two good old country fellas!” 

Two country fellas, the unresolved baker and the offbeat stranger. “I went out to clean the well. I didn’t think it would take quite so long, the river runs right behind my field.” 

He moved over, allowing Akaashi to grab one of the unkneaded mounds of dough. Elbow to elbow, on the block, the two finished the day’s kneading. Bokuto spoke whilst he did. “Rivers are great aren’t they? I love them, but we haven’t seen any nice, big ones for a long while. How’s this town’s? Is it big?” 

One loaf left. When Akaashi’d been young, it’d seemed immense. “Not very big, but nice. The village children love to play on a bank nearby. They make little boats from sharpened sticks and leaves. They don’t float well, but they still pretend they’re these grand French battalions.” 

Bokuto’s threw his arms upwards, bread all but forgotten. “Man, that sounds great! I’d love to go! Akaashi, you definitely have to take me.” 

Akaashi’s hands paused. One more loaf. Surely, he couldn’t say yes to that. Any dues already paid off, a lot of work to be done. Still, his hands wouldn’t move. He watched, listened. Bokuto stared down expectantly. The crickets had begun to croon, stalks rustling in the wind. He swallowed, stared at his hands. Surely, he couldn’t…

“Alright.”

Bokuto clapped his hands together. “Great! I’ll come by again tomorrow morning then!” 

Akaashi nodded silently. 

“Damn, it’s late, isn’t it? I’d better get going though, or else Kuroo will kill me!” 

He nodded again. 

The patter of footsteps, the chime of the bell, and he was still just standing, staring wordlessly at his hands. The last loaf of the day. He knitted his brows. It seemed his worries had been justified after all.


	3. Chapter 3

Akaashi let his gaze drift towards the window once more. It was already nearing lunch time. He started to pull at his fingers restlessly, impatiently. Had he really set aside an entire day on someone who could barely abide by a schedule they themselves had instated? With every passing patron, his annoyance became more marked. 

Not much later, a shout that sounded something like, “Damn it, I’m late again!”, shattered the quiet of St Marie that particular morning. 

For the second time that week, Akaashi was staring down at a large and wheezing figure, silvery strands and pale skin alone visible. And for the second time, his awe at the scene playing out nearly removed all exasperation he felt. 

“I figured,” he started between staggered pants, “it would be easier to find the second time. But I think I actually made my way into a different town before getting here, because I got to this bakery and an old, I mean really old, man was there instead. And, maybe it was like Rip Van Winkle, but- “ 

“Alright, I get the gist, Bokuto-san. If you want to go see the river, I suggest we go now.” 

He grinned widely, eyes crinkling at the edges. “Alright Commander! At your beck and call!” And so, they set out, Bokuto struggling to keep up after having barely caught his breath, Akaashi mildly anxious about what the other villagers would think about him showing a black clad outsider around. 

“Wait,” 

Like flesh eating worms, a single prospect continued to burrow its way into his mind. 

“Wait!” called a voice. 

What of the double crossers, the spies?, it whispered. He instinctively fastened his hands, quickened his pace. 

“For God’s sake, Akaashi!” A hand clutched at the hem of his shirt, stopping him dead in his tracks. He turned, intrusive thoughts relentlessly pounding against his skull. The moment stilled, steadfast amber boring into irresolute green. A moment broken only by an insistent questioning tone.

“What’s that place over there?” Oh, that. The cottage with impeccable wooden accents and blushing peonies hanging off each window sill. 

“The carpenter’s.” He licked at his dry lips, continued. “His boy comes to pick up the bread every Sunday morning.” So they went, at a much slower pace, Bokuto asking about each house they passed. Akaashi making his best effort to respond, giving the inhabitants’ profession, number of family members, when they visited the bakery. Not that he knew much more about any of them, with the sole exception being Yukie. Nevertheless, he was grateful as the questions had ebbed his anxieties. 

The river ran just outside St. Marie. It was supposed to eventually flow into the Seine, leading to many village children complotting to follow the stream all the way into the heart of Paris, and then back on the same day as to not conjure the wrath of their mothers. However, in all practicality, it was simply a stream that supplied the villagers with water. A river that whipped its way around behind the cottages, through a meager forest and cumulated in a supposedly impressive bank just outside the town. Now that they were looking down at so called bank, it was much more spectacular than the rest of it. Lined with reeds and tall grasses brimming with mallards, he could see why it enamored the children. 

“Wow,” Bokuto gasped. “I was in this town for all of two days and didn’t find this place?” Akaashi had lived here his whole life and he’d never come either. He continued indignantly. “What have I been doing with my time?” Baking, Akaashi mused. More accurately, paying off debts. 

“Akaashi, let’s go swimming!” 

Was he serious? Even in the summer, the water was horridly cold. He didn’t do much swimming, it was rather unsavory for someone to be doing at his own age.   
Plus, only children played in the river, and he’d only brought Bokuto there at his request, selfish might he ad- 

And he’d already started to strip off his clothes. 

“Bokuto-san.” He turned innocently, shirt already thrown among the grass. “You shouldn’t swim in that river.” 

“Why?” 

Why? Was that even a question? It was clear why, but the large unblinking eyes said nothing of that. Rather, they narrowed, lower lip jutting out. “Why?” he repeated. “I haven’t swum in so long. I want to swim.” 

It was almost like dealing with… a child. One of the rare encounters with merchant children whose parents bought them every wrapped candy they wanted. Who had grown up not knowing the word no, everything theirs for the taking. Fine, he reasoned, it shouldn’t be that hard to convince him that swimming wasn’t a good idea. 

“The current is very strong, you know.” 

“So?” he grumbled. 

“So, if you don’t want to be swept out to the Seine, I recommend you don’t go in there.” 

“Really?” Akaashi peeked over. There was that idealistic expression again. Akaashi grinned feebly, nodded solemnly. 

“Oh, yes. They say at least two children were swept all the way through to Paris because they didn’t listen to their mothers when they said it was dangerous.” 

“Wow, wouldn’t want that to happen to me. Thanks for the warning, Akaashi.” After pulling back on his shirt, he started to pull off his shoes. “Guess I’ll have to settle for just soaking my feet, right?” Akaashi stopped himself from arguing. One battle won, he innately felt, was a feat in itself. 

He resolved to sit quietly, knees up to his chest on the bank of the river as Bokuto splashed around in the water. Eventually, he sat down as well, feet still submerged in the clear water, clothes wet and dishevelled, and started to tell stories. Grand stories, fitted with appropriate, or inappropriate when they nearly hit Akaashi in the face, hand gestures. Stories about the towns they’d passed through, and the people who had refused to serve him because he’d been disturbing the silence. Bakers who’d charged twenty francs for a loaf of bread, simply because he was a stranger who had no where else to go and money was hard to come by. The people who he travelled with, Kuroo who supposedly made terrible jokes and never properly styled his hair, Kenma who was always caught up in some new novel and still mysterious after the months they’d been together. 

Akaashi thought about the sort of tumultuous life he’d never known, the kind of life sensuous novels like The Three Musketeers romanticized. He’d never understand the appeal. But this person’s eyes were ablaze, heartily set upon a future holding the unknown.

“Well,” he stared downwards, playing with the tufts of grass between his fingers, “we’ll have to leave soon. We’re only here, in…” 

“Saint. Marie.” 

“Right, exactly. A week, to restock funds before moving on to Paris. But I’ve had a lot of fun, Kaashi, I never knew baking could be so great.” Akaashi nodded.   
It’d been like a summer storm, wild and irrational and disordered. Something that passed, soon to be forgotten. Bokuto shuffled beside him. The wind was picking up, the willows rustling, the larks warbling away. No, he had the premonition that was inherently wrong. Though he prided himself in reasoning, it was simply wrong. A summer storm didn’t rip through villages and throw tides in disarray and wreak havoc on each farmer’s crop. The wind had changed directions, he was sure, because it wasn’t a summer storm he’d been looking up at. 

Then hands were on his shoulders, and a weight across his legs, and someone was shouting in his ear, “Akaashi, I’ve got it! You can come with us! It’s perfect, then we can…” And the stream was bubbling, and the larks were taking off, and he understood that it was a hurricane, not a summer storm. 

“Akaashi? Akaashi? Are you listening?” Bokuto’s face inches from his own, giddy with excitement. “Did you hear? You can come with us! You will, won’t you?” He opened his mouth, but could think of nothing to say. Because he sure as hell hadn’t anticipated this two days ago. 

“I’ll think about it.” 

Bokuto pouted, but eventually relented because a maybe was infinitely better than a no. 

“Kuroo said I shouldn’t say anything, but Akaashi, I can trust you, can’t I? So I’ll just tell you.” He looked around, checked that no one was within earshot. Only vaguely, as if what he had to say was worth little more than a secret dinner invitation. 

“See, we’re on our way to Paris. We’re only three, but there’s all these allies, and more are turning out each day. We’re going to overthrow the Black Prince.” Again, the world stilled. But this time it wasn’t because he felt overwhelmed, or surprised, or something else he couldn’t quite place his finger on. He didn’t react immediately, because by no means could something that inordinate be the truth. Yet, the black clothes, his strange demeanor, his sudden arrival, all made sense in this context. He probably hadn’t a single dishonest bone in all his body. So that meant, it really was...?

This, this was the sinking feeling of dread. It felt like a shadow had drawn itself across the vast surface of the Earth. Like a hand had reached out and crushed his windpipe, left his vision blank and ears ringing. Like they were suddenly surrounded by eyes and ears, the King’s and his croon’s, who unlike his own, were cocked attentively. And all he could come out with, even though the answer was clear as day, was, 

“You’re kidding, right?” 

“Do I look like a liar, Akaashi?” He chirped on, as if the air pressure hadn’t suddenly dropped. As if the mere mention of an uprising didn’t make him feel like his heart was threatening to give out. As if he’d never heard about the people that’d been sent to the guillotine for far less. 

How had he survived up till then? How could he, the deeper he got into Paris? It was unimaginable, he would never be able… 

Well, there was a way. A sure-fire one, at that. Akaashi fell back, the tension of the moment dissipating. He sighed, pressed the palms of his hands to his eyes. He was fatigued, wishing he was back in his warm bakery. 

“So will you come? I promise it’ll be great.” 

It wouldn’t. But he almost felt like he didn’t have a choice. “I’ll think about it,” he mumbled, playing out the same conversation as before. 

“Agaashi, I’ll come back to the bakery tomorrow. You know you’d love it!” He stood, shaking the grass off his pants “I better go, Kuroo’ll be mad if I’m late again! See you then!” He ran off, waving, leaving Akaashi alone. Eventually, Akaashi too returned to his cottage. Not in the mood to bake bread, clean up, or do anything at all. He watched the Sun make its way through the sky that evening.

Until the moon had replaced the sun and the stars were glinting up above. Staring up like it was before the Revolution and his mother was still right beside him. He wished he could ask her what to do. But he knew what she would say and somehow there’d never really been a choice to make in the first place.


	4. Chapter 4

As promised, for the third day in the row, Bokuto had diligently appeared in the entrance of the bakery. However, Akaashi noted at least two things that were slightly different that day. Number one was that he had arrived remarkably early. The sun had barely risen to the sky, and Akaashi had already accepted that Bokuto specialized in being late for even the arrangements he himself had planned. That was therefore a strange development. Number two was that two others accompanied him, both clad completely in black. One large and commanding, standing grandly at the front and looking over the shop, the other his complete opposite. Most shocking however, and it was noteworthy because everything thus far had been shocking, was how different Bokuto himself looked. Hunched over and facing away from the rest of them, as energetic as a radish. 

In any case, the man at the front spoke before Akaashi had a chance to say anything. Not to Akaashi, the store keeper, but to Bokuto who had yet to make a single move. 

“This the guy?” Bokuto nodded, still looking in the opposite direction. The man just shook his head. 

Then he eyed Akaashi up and down, and looked him on point-blank. Akaashi noted that he too wasn’t dead eyed. Not wanting to be the first to break eye contact, he held his gaze. 

“Good morning. Usually, I’d offer up a smile and a handshake, introduce myself as Pierre.” A necessary precaution, Akaashi would imagine. One Bokuto clearly hadn’t taken. “Suppose that’s not really necessary now, though. You already know my real name, right?”

Bokuto hadn’t bothered making his descriptions very obscure either. He thought he could easily pick out both of Kenma and Kuroo in crowded Paris pavilions. 

“Kuroo?” 

Kuroo, now confirmed, considering how he’d warily shaken his head at the name, turned to Bokuto again. “I let you out, and this is what you do?” 

Bokuto spoke for the first time that day. Rather, whimpered. “But Kuroo-”

“No, I’ll deal with you later.” Bokuto whipped his gaze away, mumbling under his breath. Kuroo, on the other hand shut his eyes and tried his best to smile benevolently. Tried, because it looked slyer than it did kind, and gave an impression opposite to the one he’d been going for. “M. Baker, or do you prefer Akaashi?” That must have been a rhetorical question because he wasn’t even given a chance to respond. “Well, in any case, considering we almost know each other intimately by now, going off what this idiot has told me, and what he must have told you, would you mind accompanying us for a bit?” 

It was one of questions that weren’t really questions. Still, like the many other things he hadn’t had a choice in those few days, he thought he may as well plan thoroughly before agreeing to anything. Though he, to some degree, trusted Bokuto, who knew what his friends were planning? He couldn’t discredit the fact that they were heading to Paris to dethrone, of all people, the damned King. In which case, they couldn’t be above torturing him halfway to death to assure his silence. If that wasn’t a worst-case scenario, he didn’t know what was. He studied Kuroo’s face carefully. 

In turn, he chuckled lightly. “If you’re worried that we’ll murder you or do anything of that nature, you really shouldn’t be.” Kuroo extended an arm towards the moping figure. “Just look at this guy, you really think he could do anything of the sort?” Close enough, but no dice. At the very least, he’d not considered murder. However, point taken. Bokuto was, well, still sulking at the moment. The words held at least a little weight. Kuroo continued, sensing a change in the atmosphere. “You must realize by now that he wouldn’t do that or associate with people who did.” 

They didn’t give off an aura of violence, Kuroo’s words being borderline diplomatic. “A civil discussion?” Akaashi questioned. 

“But of course.” There resurfaced the crooked grin. Hesitantly, Akaashi agreed to accompany the trio. Fortunately, they seemed to have more sense than to wander together, a throng of onyx, through the sunny streets of St Marie. They had been far shrewder than that, Kuroo proclaimed, and had mapped out a path that crossed behind the cottages and through thick thrushes instead, which they had been using to get around town up till then. While it explained why he hadn’t seen any of the others, it didn’t explain why Bokuto had been roaming around the streets unlike the rest of them. 

They set off, Kuroo leading the group, Bokuto begrudgingly dragged along behind him, Kenma, who had yet to speak a word, taking up the rear. On their way down this path, Akaashi had thought to ask why that was so. “Because he doesn’t listen to a word I say,” had hissed Kuroo, ending any further discussion. A fitting response, deemed Akaashi. 

Their hideout wasn’t very much of a hideout. It was simply a farmhouse that lay further out in the countryside, abandoned after the Revolution. A constant desire for news from Paris and reluctance to remain isolated in the countryside had eventually led all those living there to venture further inland. This had led to patches of land like this across the country, abandoned save for stubborn squatters, quiet save for chittering animals hiding among the overgrown grasses. 

They’d set up a makeshift room on the bottom floor. A dusty carpet, which must have been a brilliant red and framed by tassels years ago, sat in the centre of the room. Kuroo sat cross-legged on it, gestured for Akaashi to sit across from him. The other two scurried to their respective corners, ears perked in one case, not much to say in the case of the other. Kuroo glowered, features dark, voice low. 

“How much, exactly, do you know, Akaashi?” It might have been intimidating had sunlight not been flooding in through the rafters, Bokuto still grumbling metres away. Under these conditions, it was far more reminiscent of children playing at a serious discussion. Still, Kuroo was undeterred. Akaashi sighed, did his best to answer truthfully. 

“Enough, I suppose. Bokuto happened to mention you were on your way to Paris to overthrow the Black Prince.” 

Kuroo put a finger thoughtfully to his chin. “It’s definitely damning. However, it’s not everything. Names of allies? Specific locations? Anything like that?” 

Akaashi shook his head, doubting Bokuto’d even paid enough attention to retain that sort of information. Kuroo seemed to settle back, slightly less apprehensive. “Well, what else did he say? That can’t be it.” 

“He didn’t tell you anything else?” 

Kuroo chuckled embarrassedly. “See, he came back late last night, told me he’d met up with that baker boy again. He says, don’t get mad Kuroo, but I told him that we’re going to take down the Black Prince and damn it, it was like all I could see was red. I got pissed, yelled, and he went into one of his moods again. And after that, I could barely get anything else out of him.” 

“Moods?” 

“Yeah, one of his damn moods. Look at him over there, brooding. I love the guy, but he’s impossible to deal with when he gets like that. Nothing to do but wait for him to find something else to do.”

Akaashi was sure he’d never seen him like that before. Curled up and quiet, a dark aura almost permeable around him. Kuroo knew him better, and was probably right that there was nothing the rest of them could do. But he couldn’t just let him be. Wasn’t it unacceptable for his pride as a man, as he’d called it? Besides, it was far too jarring that Bokuto was around and not making any noise. At the very least, Akaashi could try. 

“Bokuto-san?” He didn’t turn around. Didn’t move at all, in fact. “You know, you shouldn’t tell strangers about your illicit activities, but I don’t think you should worry about it in this case. What you said yesterday? I’ll agree to it.” 

He turned suddenly, expression bright and revitalized. “Will you really?!” 

“Wait, wait,” complained Kuroo, trying futilely to keep his voice from betraying his frustration, “don’t leave me out of the conversation! What the hell did you agree to?!” 

His face fell again. “But Kuroo’s still mad. He won’t agree…” 

“No shit I’m still mad! What won’t I agree…” One glance from Akaashi was enough to give him momentary pause. “I’ll listen, I suppose.” 

Bokuto jumped up, rejuvenated, once more chirping about something neither of the other two fully understood. Akaashi gazed over at Kuroo, trying hard to keep a smirk off his face. Kuroo looked in his direction, not even trying to keep the incredulity off his face. With that, they continued the discussion in a triangular formation. 

“So? What is this Akaashi is agreeing to?” 

“He said he’ll come with to us to Paris!” Akaashi had never seen a more obvious expression of surprise, as the one on Kuroo’s face at that moment. His jaw must have dropped mere centimetres from the floor. 

“You asked some baker you met three days ago, to join us?” 

“Yeah.” 

Kuroo’s expression grew confused. “And you just agreed.” 

“Tentatively.” 

Kuroo scratched at his hair, looked contemplatively at the dulled patterns on the carpet. Kuroo, like any responsible leader, was probably thinking that he could never allow a countryman whom he knew nothing about into their team. The next logical step would thus be to figure out how to refuse him without conjuring the wrath, or moodiness, of any of the other team members. Which resulted in his decision to call a vote. 

“Why?” cried Bokuto, outraged. “He’d be an asset to the team, Kuroo!” 

Kuroo shrugged, gave a furtive grin. “Even if I knew that, we can’t just decide like that. A vote is in order because we fight for a fair say for each!” His voice rose, fist raised towards the ceiling. “Democracy, not autocracy! Is that not what we call for?!” 

“Right!” Bokuto had gotten caught up in the fervour, blissfully unaware how much harder it would be to achieve his goal if he allowed a vote to be called. Akaashi sighed. “Well, I say he comes.” 

“Heh, I already knew that. Kenma?” Now, Akaashi mused, if Kuroo really wanted to make the decision seem fair, impartial, and retain his position as rightful leader, he would allow Kenma to vote first. He must have some confidence that Kenma would say no, for a reason unbeknownst to Akaashi, which would allow his plan to proceed as he wished. In which case, Akaashi would simply have to beat him at his own game. 

The blanketed mound turned but didn’t put down his novel. “Wait a second,” Akaashi appealed, “before you decide. You didn’t even ask what I can do.”  
If a pile of blankets could look hesitant, it did. After a long silence, he spoke, voice low and hushed. “What can you do?” 

“I can bake.” Well, obviously. 

Another long silence. “Desserts?” 

“I’m not bad at them. Some pastries are up my alley.” 

There was stillness, and finally respite. Shuffling, and a frail hand raised from the blankets. “He doesn’t seem like a bad guy.” 

Kuroo groaned. “Kenma, really?” But Kenma had already retreated into the Dumas novel in his hands. And Kuroo’s plan had failed miserably with three words from Akaashi. “I would vote, but I suppose it doesn’t matter anymore, huh? Where has sensibility gone in this world? Weren’t our dear ancestors’ democracy meant to empower the masses and allow for rationality to prevail? But look where it’s gotten us, sitting in a barn and voting on whether we should bring someone along based on their cooking skills and likability. A crime is what it is. ”

Bokuto interrupted his monologuing with little tenderness. “Kuroo, come on, what’s the worst that can happen?” 

“God, you should know far better than to ask that! He could get killed? We could all get killed? Bokuto, come on man.” 

He shrugged his shoulders, like that sort of possibility didn’t exist in his mind. Not that it didn’t exist, but that it was the sort of thing he could easily overcome. Kuroo sighed, and turned away from the others, defeated. 

“As I said, it no longer matters what I say. He can come.” 

Bokuto whooped, throwing his arm around Akaashi’s shoulder, pulling him in close to his chest. Patting his shoulder until Akaashi was sure it had been dislocated, promising that they would have a ‘grand old time in Paris.’ His tight grip was stifling in more ways than one. 

“I didn’t agree with this, for the record. Anything that happens is all on you, Bokuto.” 

“Alright!” hollered Bokuto. Akaashi wondered if he really understood what that meant. 

“Bokuto-san, you’re hurting my shoulder.” Bokuto let go, sheepishly rubbed at his neck. At least the apology that followed seemed sincere. And although he said nothing, he really did hope he’d understood what that sort of burden meant.


End file.
